hrew up their hats. The members of the batting team
pranced up and down the side lines, giving a splendid imitation of
cannibals celebrating the occasion of a feast.

Once Snead stooped down to trap the "rabbit," and it slipped through
his legs, for which his comrades jeered him unmercifully. Then a
brawny batter sent up a tremendously high fly between short and third.

"You take it!" yelled Gillinger to Bane.

"You take it!" replied the Crab, and actually walked backward. That
ball went a mile high. The sky was hazy, gray, the most perplexing in
which to judge a fly ball. An ordinary fly gave trouble enough in the
gauging.

Gillinger wandered around under the ball for what seemed an age. It
dropped as swiftly as a rocket shoots upward. Gillinger went forward
in a circle, then sidestepped, and threw up his broad hands. He
misjudged the ball, and it hit him fairly on the head and bounced
almost to where Doran stood at second.

Our big captain wilted. Time was called. But Gillinger, when he came
to, refused to leave the game and went back to third with a lump on his
head as large as a goose egg.

Every one of his teammates was sorry, yet every one howled in glee. To
be hit on the head was the unpardonable sin for a professional.

Old man Hathaway gradually lost what little speed he had, and with it
his nerve. Every time he pitched the "rabbit" he dodged. That was
about the funniest and strangest thing ever seen on a ball field. Yet
it had an element of tragedy.

Hathaway's expert contortions saved his head and body on divers
occasions, but presently a low bounder glanced off the grass and
manifested an affinity for his leg.

We all knew from the crack and the way the pitcher went down that the
"rabbit" had put him out of the game. The umpire called time, and
Merritt came running on the diamond.

"Hard luck, old man," said the manager. "That'll make a green and
yellow spot all right. Boys, we're still two runs to the good. There's
one out, an' we can win yet. Deerfoot, you're as badly crippled as
Hathaway. The bench for yours. Hooker will go to center, an' I'll
pitch."

Merritt's idea did not strike us as a bad one. He could pitch, and he
always kept his arm in prime condition. We welcomed him into the fray
for two reasons--because he might win the game, and because he might be
overtaken by the baseball Nemesis.

While Merritt was putting on Hathaway's baseball shoes, some of us
endeavore